….that tempt you to fill a super soaker with gasoline and purge the world of dumb with holy fire….

Anyone who insists on introducing themselves as the 2nd or 3rd or whatever other denomination. I don’t give a good gutfuck if you happen to be Percy Clanston Whithermeyer III, and neither does anyone else! You know what they say about all sequels to movies being shittier than the originals?! Well that shit is true for people too fucker. You are the shitty replica of someone who came before you…..and they were probably alot cooler. I’m not saying it’s not endearing to be named after your grandfather who stormed Normandy or the like, but you know what? Save that story for when i’ve actually expressed an interest in your sordid family lineage…..I promise you’ll know when I actually care.

SUB POINT – if anyone ever introduces themselves as Blah Blah Esquire…..you’re officially allowed to expose their frontal lobe with an icepick

SUB POINT 2 – you don’t need to sign every fucking document with your little roman numeral reminder that your parents are uncreative dicksmokers, really you can just sign the dominoes receipt like a normal person..because I assure you that when the archaeologists of the eons unearth it, that the irony of you ordering a pizza with pepperoni on it while your grand daddy whom you are named after died behind a butcher’s shop with a salami log jammed up his butt in the 1950’s for being a communist will be lost on them.

Anyone over the age of 17 who can’t debate like an adult. I like to debate shit; whether it’s politics, religion, literature, movies, music you name it and I can forge a pointless hardline view from which to aggressively argue until blue in the face. It’s like a free adrenaline rush that doesn’t have to end with my face marred by a liberal application of concrete. But god damned if some of these chucklefucks haven’t learned to at least argue better than a primate. Typically when I start spouting off like a dick I at least support my theorem or opinion with SOME KIND OF DATA. You know like…..numbers or facts or maybe even a published article if i’m feeling really saucy. Usually about that time the orangutan on the other side of the debate will begin to fidget and talk increasingly louder as a defense mechanism. It’s funny to watch a grown adult devolve into a toddler right in front of your eyes as they resort to something that used to work on the playground. If you watch really close you can watch their arms twitch as their inner ape struggles to win the debate by shitting in their open palm and tossing it at your face. Really I’d have more respect for you if you just did that instead of just trying to yell over me.

SUB POINT – Arguing on the internet does not adhere to these rules. Search the archives of alt.troll for a full tutorial on this…..bring popcorn

SUB POINT 2 – Some of you self proclaimed geniuses may be suffering some cognitive dissonance as you asperger on the common expression that most facts are made up on the spot. Sure i’ll give you that, in fact i’ve prolly done it, but if you don’t have the mental agility to make up some better bullshit than me, then you still deserve to lose the argument.

Also while on the subject of aspies; anyone who has ridiculous fears or compulsions beyond the age of 4 should be encased in a room with that shit until either they swallow their own tongue or get the fuck over it. If you have a driver’s license, a debit card and are physiologically capable of procreating you aren’t allowed to be afraid of the sound of yellow OK? It just doesn’t work like that. You want adult privileges yes? Well then I can’t have you obsessively counting the cirrus clouds on the drive to work and then frothing at the mouth when it’s not a prime number.

Anareta – From the Greek, literally destroyer. Applied to a malefic that occupies an anaretic place and afflicts the Hyleg; believed by ancients to be life-destructive.

anaretic place the final degree (between 29° and 30°) of any sign, also called the degree of fate. Planets and house cusps that occupy anaretic degrees indicate fundamental issues with which one must deal.

It’s out there – your anareta; a counterweight to all your good luck, ever circling you like a vulture. 29° of misfortune waiting to fall from the heavens and spear you at the most inopportune moments. In reality your anareta isn’t really spiraling down from the reach of the galaxy to trip you up, it is in fact travelling with you all the time. It’s the voice in back of your skull telling you that you’re going to fuck up this interview, fail this test, or never make it as an author. All your personal demons wrapped in one little break-in-case-of-confidence glass case. Most (if not all) of us wage a constant tug-of-war with our anaretic degrees on a daily basis, always trapped in the back and forth of convincing ourselves of what we are capable of.

One of my own worst personal struggles in this vein was in fact the band I named after it. In hindsight maybe that wasn’t the best way to christen my musical venture; kind of like calling the Titanic the Big Sinky Death. At any rate it was an unending struggle against the anareta’s of 4 individuals, something that in the end proved too cumbersome to juggle, that eventually dragged it down. So yeah, sometimes.. those 29° win. But I say fuck that, I say we always stand defiant in the face of it.

Enough romance of the cockles…..here’s some vid of what was prolly our best outing, complete with the song 29°.

29°

aversion

So I’ve come to realization that these “Real Housewives of Wher-ever-the-fuck” shows are the absolute prime example of the downfall of Western Civilization. Every single woman depicted on these shows is a shallow, self-aggrandizing gold-digger who doesn’t have an ounce of talent or any marketable skills to speak of other than popping out babies and letting nannies raise them. Every single one of these bitches has followed the same basic plan of attack –

Marry into Money

Divorce poor schlub with money and take 50% of his net worth, plus alimony and whatever else her grubby botox mitts can snag including houses, cars, boats etc

Repeat Step 2 if more money is needed to spend on moronic business ventures and/or shitty acting/singing careers

Miraculously no matter where the show is set (Orange County, New Jersey, Atlanta, New York) all of the women featured seem to have mastered this truly ingenious scheme. Below is only one stunningly embarrassing way these leeches spend the money they’ve sucked-fucked-divorced into.

AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

REALLY BITCH?!?!?!?

PRO-TIP: MONEY ALSO CANNOT BUY YOU A VOICE YOU SHALLOW TALENTLESS CUNT (also I hope standing next to all that expensive musical equipment that STILL CAN’T MAKE your awful excuse for a singing voice sound better, irradiates your uterus and renders you barren so can’t infect the world with anymore of your lineage)

She sounds like two cats fucking in an alley who get broken up by one of them slipping ass first into a blender. It’s truly fucking horrible. AND WHO THE FUCK IS THAT PRODOUCHER?!?! Later in the clip he exclaims how awesome she sounds and then without missing a fucking ass-kissing breath as he no doubt rakes in several hundred dollars of her ‘hard earned’ cash unbelievably compares her..

to…

Madonna……….

Let that shit sink in for a second. Seriously that piece of shit is a walking, talking example of the AIDS in the music industry I bet he also praises Fallout Boy for not selling out and wants to intern for P-Diddy so he can really get a taste of what the industry is like. Hopefully this dickfuck catches a stray 9mm in the face whilst standing in front of the Virgin superstore in Times Square debating the finer points of Ashely Simpson’s vocal stylings.

I hope Madonna never sees that because I know if someone compared me to the Countess pictured above I’d want to suck on a buckshot milkshake real fucking fast. Oh and yes you read that last sentence correctly. The caterwauling harpy in the above 15 seconds of pure aural torture goes by Countess.

THE COUNTESS OF WHAT BITCH??? You live in New York. This great magical land from which you hail as Countess must not be that awesome since you moved to fucking New York instead. I like to imagine she hails from the far away Duchy of Leechcunt, where all Countesses learn the courtesan skills of spending other people’s money and talking shit about people she deems beneath her.

It is my sincere hope that after her thankless leech spawn have sucked at her golden tit well into their 40’s that they unceremoniously dump her dried up ass in the worst retirement home they can find. I hope she then gets the royal treatment she so deserves of eating oatmeal through a straw and shitting in an adult diaper for the remainder of her days.

Alot of peeps look down on this action/adventure/sci-fi/fantasy mashup from the 80’s. It was dwarfed in popularity by a much more well known sci-fi epic also released in 83 called Return of the Jedi. Now don’t get me wrong I love the original trilogy as much as the next uber-nerd, but Krull is at least as good as Return, if not in some ways better….I’m sure there’s a throng of Lucasites now choking on the foam that was already building around their Twi’lek pseudopod licking lips so lets break it down…

The biggest issue people seem to have with Krull is the scene where our intrepid band of heroes uses a pack of wild horses capable of flight to make the several hundred league journey to the dark lord’s castle before it teleports away to an unknown location. For some reason suspension of disbelief is just alien at this point in a world were we have already established that sorcery is real. I don’t get it. So what there’s a scene with flying horses, there’s also a shapechanging magician, cyclops, demons, giant spiders, telekinetically controlled weapons, teleportation, doppleganger assassins and clairvoyant senior citizens. WHY THE FUCK ARE FLYING HORSES A PROBLEM IN THIS SETTING?!?!?!

Does the internal dialog of this realization go something like:

Fuck yeah cyclops’ are awesome………Holy shit that is one giant demon spider….wait….wait….WHAT THE FUCK FLYING HORSES?!?!?!?! WHAT MANNER OF WITCHERY WOULD THIS FILM HAVE ME BELIEVE IS POSSIBLE ON A FICTIONAL PLANET IN A HIGH FANTASY SETTING?!!?!?!?

If that does mirror what you feel when watching Krull then you have no recourse for being able to sit through an entire screening of Return of the Jedi either. If you can’t stomach flying horses then there’s no way you can even handle the Battle of Endor scene without going into an epileptic fit.

During the Battle of Endor a technologically superior force, capable of interstellar travel and the manufacture of a moon sized space station, is defeated by a group of 4 foot tall 100 lb teddy bears with the technological advancements cavemen.

TOTALLY IMPLAUSIBLE

TOTALLY PLAUSIBLE

LOLWUT?!?!?!

This scene is roughly equivalent in scale to me demolishing an abrams tank with a bocce ball set and some rope.

ME: Krull is a decent early 80’s sci-fi flick with a better than average cast and production values for the time

ME: Yeah, so that scene where the ewoks blow up a pair of Imperial walkers with twigs, vines, and rocks….that could really happen right? Like if I showed up in the amazon and decided to decimate an uncontacted tribe with a tank….they’d put up an awesome fight with their blowguns and frog poison darts right?

Somewhere in the unwritten laws of the cosmos there is a logic statement dictating that all managers must be dickheads. I’m not really sure who enacted this law, whether there was a vote, or if meeting notes were emailed out with action items, but whomever is responsible is definitely an asshole.

In the majority of any of the positions I’ve ever had, anyone with any sort of decision making power, managerial control, or ownership of the company has been a complete dickbrain. I’m not the only person with this curse either. In fact I can’t think of one friend, co-worker, or family member who hasn’t mysteriously been plagued by the same seemingly unending stream of jerk-offs all apparently cut from the same cloth.

So even though Darwin seems to have missed this KEY chain of evolution, lets examine it. Most of these guys had to work their way up just like us. They started as stockers in the supermarket, or working the mail room, or fixing printers, or laying sod, or putting up drywall for someone else’s company. These guys jockeyed desks and keyboards and task lists imprisoned in grey cubicles just like me. So did they start off as raging cockasses? I’d really like to think not. I’d love to imagine a world were people like that DIDN’T get rewarded for treating everyone they encounter on a day to day basis like utter dogshit.

The other more sinister option, that keeps me up at night grinding my teeth dreaming about schools of piranha ripping and tearing my oppressors apart, is that the actual TITLE of manager/owner/headfuckhoncho creates this brand of jerk. I envision the horrible (yet awesome) transformation scene from An American Werewolf in London were our protagonist becomes the wolf for the first time. In my minds eye I see this happening to normal everyday guys like me on the day they get promoted to VP of Sucking Off the Chairman. The hint of power corrupts their souls and they become some kind of mutant were-dick. Destined to exact revenge on all their helpless underlings for the years of oppression they had suffered at the hands of dickheads above them. Employing cleverly passive aggressive techniques like

” Thanks for putting in those 30 overtime hours last week, but you know you were 14 min late today. I really need you to be more of a team player ”

You know, the kind of psychological date rape tactics that should be reserved for re-runs of The Prisoner.

It is without fail that everytime I enter the checkout line at the grocery store with some article of pet supplies in my shopping cart, that the person operating the cash register must ask:

“What kind of dog/cat do you have?”

And then, also without fail, launch into some mindless diatribe about their pet before I can even answer!!! WTF?!!

I don’t give a shit about your mangy little beast! ESPECIALLY if it’s a cat! I hate cats. By and large they are all assholes and are completely disassociative unless they need something from you. Then they are loud and obnoxious and won’t hesitate to slice your shit up if it so pleases them or they think it will further their quest to eat tuna.

Listen here underpaid overworked grocery line clerk. I understand that you are desperate for diversion after a 15 hour day dealing with human hogs giving you shit cause they didn’t know the 30 cent coupon for lean pockets expired yesterday. I can see how that might create an impulse to see my cat litter and think

” he has a cat…..i have a cat!!! maybe he’s normal like ME!?!”

Trust me I am not. And you might has well have a MUTE button on your chubby chin when you start telling me about Sir Pussmunch or whatever other ridiculous name your animal has. My brain immediately dials out the sound of your monologue about how your cat/dog loves this/that and blahhhhhblahhhhblahhhhhhhh.

It becomes white noise to thoughts of what the backlash would be if I randomly punched the old lady behind me in the throat as a karmic FUCKYOU for Grandma Liverspot giving me lip in the wendy’s lunch line the week before. I don’t dial back in until I hear the words

” your total is..”

I slide my card and leave resisting the urge to tell them what I really think of their cat. It could get lodged in the oven on thanksgiving day for all I care. So seriously lady….FUCK YOUR CAT.